People ask me for time,
My steady noddle shows
the real facet of my watch,
Every minute i lose something,
Every tick i get a notch.

My house is very low,
I look up to all,
My sun doesn't rise
It only has a fall.

My day is my twilight,
My windows shut
throughout the lunation,
The hypermetropia of ignorance,
keeps my lashes unmoved
from worldly instigations.

But i have kept my pen
with nib down,
i am friends with night
where i can easily frown.

With happiness trickling from my ink,
i can afford a modest vanity,
i can finally enjoy and admire,
‘The Sunday of Trinity’.